


Blog vs. Bed

by sherlohomora



Series: 221Bedtime [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blogging, Husbands, Laps, M/M, Seduction, Silly, Teasing, after Rosie goes to bed, dads, no real plot but no real porn either, not sure about the "rating" pretty much just kisses and some clothed grinding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-26 08:58:27
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9878288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlohomora/pseuds/sherlohomora
Summary: Sequel scene set immediately following "Bedtime for Jellyfish" (read that first)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Playing around...I've spent a while thinking about part I, but this scene was conceived/dashed off this afternoon. Hope to edit this a bit and try to write a part III!

John peels off when they pass through the sitting room. He settles in his armchair with the goal of finishing that pesky final paragraph, tapping the touchpad of his laptop to stir the screen back to life. His eyelids start to droop as he scrolls through his entry -- Rosie wasn’t the only one worn out after that imaginary arrest. He yawns. _“A novel idea”…oh god, that’s bloody awful...”never does things by the book.”_   He groans, catching/deleting yet another painful pun.  _Can’t even blame it on whiskey,_ he thinks. _I wrote this shit stone cold-sober_. However, he's pleased with the paragraphs detailing Sherlock’s deductions. _Cut the description of Sherlock’s “taut, statuesque frame?” Perhaps just trim a few words...pity to scrap it entirely…_

Suddenly, there’s a wet tongue in his ear.

“SHhher-!”

The blogger whips his head around and glances up to see his husband looming over the back of the chair. A familiar pair of sinewy arms slide around John’s shoulders and along his chest. Sherlock bows his head as John tilts his chin up, their mouths meeting in the middle. But before Sherlock gets a chance to deepen the kiss, John turns away, bending back over his laptop to resume his work.

Miffed, but undeterred, Sherlock begins carding his fingers through John’s wavy silver hair, massaging his scalp as he types.

“John, we just apprehended the ocean’s most notorious criminal…” he says in his deep, rumbling growl -- the voice John calls "pure sex."

“Mmm, indeed…” John mumbles. He continues to type.

“I was expecting to be pinned against the wall and thoroughly ravished. You’re usually insatiable after a case…mad with desire…blood pumping through your veins...straight to your cock...” Graceful fingers trace the stubble along John's jaw, stroke the slight cleft in his chin, dance across his collarbone. Then Sherlock begins unbuttoning John’s shirt, dipping down to playfully nibble an earlobe.

“Hurry, before the adrenaline high wears off.”

“And risk waking the Jellyfish? You just tucked her in.” John's eyes remain focused on the screen.

“Trust me, Watson’s out. In a few minutes, she’ll enter Stage 3 of N-REM sleep. That's _deep_ sleep, John. _Delta waves_.”

“Shhh -- I’m trying to write, you git. Your sex voice is distracting.”

“When did my husband become so boring?” Sherlock sighs. “I’m offering to shag you senseless, but you’d rather blog about…what?” He learns forward to swat John’s hands away from the keyboard.

“Oi! What the --”

Sherlock snatches up the laptop, holding it out of reach while he climbs into his husband’s lap. The taller man drapes himself sideways across John’s thighs and attempts to arrange his long, bony limbs in a semi-comfortable position, legs dangling over the chair’s left arm.

"You have your own chair, idiot."

"But you're far more cozy."

Still holding the laptop aloft and out of harm’s way, Sherlock leans into John’s chest, nuzzling sharp cheekbones in the crook of his neck, shimmying bum against groin. Once situated, Sherlock lowers the laptop and begins to read through John’s post.

“’The Book Club Burglar?’ Oh, John…I think I just lost my erection.”

John laughs. It's a rich, beautiful sound. He squeezes Sherlock against his chest and gives his pale neck an affectionate nip.

“Alternate title is ‘The Robber Guzzled Rosé.’”

“Poetic."

"And accurate. Maybe 'The Tipsy Theif?""

Sherlock emits a noncommittal hum, and John can feel the vibration against his own chest. Sherlock turns his cheek, meeting John’s lips a soft, slow kiss. John's hand automatically reaches up to caress his husband’s curls.

“Really, your writing has gotten much better,” Sherlock purrs, snuggling closer. “You almost manage to make this case sound…interesting.”

He closes the laptop and places it on the side table. The long fingers return to John’s chest, undoing more buttons. He can feel John’s half-hard cock against his arse, and he begins to lazily grind against it. John doesn't give him the satisfaction of a groan, biting his lip and exhaling through his nostrils.

“Too bad I’m immune to flattery,” John whispers, breath warm and a little ticklish along the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “A tidy bathroom, however, is a _major_ turn-on. I suspect ours currently resembles a crime scene. How many litres did you two displace this time?”

Sherlock stops mid-grind and sits up straight. He remains in John’s lap but turns his head away, avoiding eye contact. “It’ll evaporate. I’m teaching Watson about the properties of H2O.”

“How convenient. Let me guess: you can’t hang the soggy towels to dry because you’re conducting an experiment on mildew growth?”

“Precisely.”

John thrusts his hips up as hard as he can, causing Sherlock to tip over onto the floor with a thud. He stares up at John, who’s risen to his feet, hands on hips. The compact man cuts a rather imposing figure when he wants to, especially from this angle. He’s not in Captain Watson mode, but that steely deep-blue glare sends a shiver along Sherlock’s spine.

“Fifteen minutes. You clean up your mess while I finish my writing. Then we’ll have celebratory sex, and I’ll make you come like a fucking tsunami.”

Sherlock gives a mischievous half-snort-half-chuckle, then hauls himself to his feet and scurries off, heart thudding with gleeful anticipation. 


End file.
